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"I thought she was so
well educated!"
William felt slightly uncomfortable, and abandoned this maiden, giving
Paul the corner with the thistles. He continued to read extracts from
his letters, some of which amused his mother, some of which saddened her
and made her anxious for him.
"My lad," she said, "they're very wise. They know they've only got to
flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its
head scratched."
"Well, they can't go on scratching for ever," he replied. "And when
they've done, I trot away."
"But one day you'll find a string round your neck that you can't pull
off," she answered.
"Not me! I'm equal to any of 'em, mater, they needn't flatter
themselves."
"You flatter YOURSELF," she said quietly.
Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all that remained of the
file of scented letters, except that Paul had thirty or forty pretty
tickets from the corners of the notepaper--swallows and forget-me-nots
and ivy sprays. And William went to London, to start a new life.


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